Hooray! The summer holidays had arrived and school was over until September. We kids poured out of those school gates on the last day of term, hopping, skipping and whooping our joy, completely oblivious to the fact that within a few short weeks we’d be kicking our heels and whining that we were bored. Come September, it’d be quite a relief to get back to the familiar routine once again. Still, on that day in late July when we were officially free, getting back to school was the furthest thing from my mind. I was one of those lucky few whose birthday fell in the summer holidays and I was wild with anticipation. I was always spoilt rotten on my birthday.
It was round about this time that I noticed Charlie Fluck lurking in doorways again, odd eyes peeled. I had a love-hate relationship with phrases such as ‘keeping your eyes skinned’ or, worse still, ‘keeping them peeled’. If I wanted to make myself feel sick, I’d give the idea serious thought and within seconds I’d turn a fetching shade of green. I could see it all: first, I’d select a really sharp knife from Uncle Bert’s kitchen. Then I’d test the edge by splitting a hair with it like they did in those cowboy or gangster pictures. Next, I’d pop the eye out, holding it firmly between thumb and forefinger, preferably with the business side turned away so that it couldn’t stare reproachfully at me. A vicious little stab with the point of the knife would get things started, then slowly and deliberately I’d run the knife around the eyeball so it peeled like an apple. Careful concentration would be necessary to avoid slicing my thumb or cutting too deep. The trick would be to get the skin off in one long, satisfying spiral.
Another option was the orange method, where I’d gouge a bit out with a thumbnail and then peel the skin away, segment by segment, although if my orange-peeling experiences were anything to go by this would be a lot messier. You may be wondering why I would want to feel sick. Well, it was a very handy knack if there was a visit to the dentist in the offing, for instance, or a tables test at school.
Anyway, I saw Charlie Fluck and reported it straight away to Uncle Bert. I knew the Perfumed Lady was far from reliable but chances were she’d put in an appearance some time around my birthday, and there Charlie would be, lurking. He could lurk for England, could Charlie. He wasn’t particularly good at not being spotted but he seemed able to lurk for hours and hours without getting bored and wandering off. As Auntie Maggie said, he should have been born in a doorway as they seemed to fit him like a glove. Every now and then he’d flit to another one, just to ring the changes, but he always kept the cafe in clear view.
Uncle Bert was not unduly concerned but he told me to keep an eye on the bleeder while he tried to get my mum on the blower. Luckily it was morning, so if she was home she’d still be in bed. He nipped next door to Sharky’s and came back grinning from ear to ear. She was home, apparently, and ‘compos mentis for a change’, whatever that meant. She had completely forgotten being told about Charlie on Coronation Day and how we’d sent him off to Brighton, but then she forgot a lot of things when she was on the bevvy, did my mum. According to Auntie Maggie, this was probably the point, but I didn’t really understand that. Anyway, we had managed to establish that her name really was Cassandra Loveday-Smythe, poor thing, so we knew Charlie was on the right track but we didn’t know why. It had been arranged that she’d come over, heavily disguised, and get a good look at Charlie and see if she recognized him. Perhaps, if she knew him, she’d have some idea as to why he was trying to find her. She might even confront him, but that decision could be left until she’d given him the once-over.
For the rest of the morning there was an air of expectation as we waited for my mum to turn up. Even Mrs Wong seemed interested. It was hard to tell of course, but I don’t think she liked that Charlie either. Dinner time came and went and still no Perfumed Lady.
As the hot, sticky afternoon wore on, it became apparent that there’d been some kind of hitch. Uncle Bert nipped next door to ring her again, but this time there was no reply. Charlie had disappeared into the Coach and Horses for half an hour at dinner time, but apart from that he hadn’t left his post.
‘You’d think he’d need a pee at least, wouldn’t you?’ Auntie Maggie asked no one in particular.
There was still no sign of the Perfumed Lady when we closed the cafe for the day, but Charlie was still there, leaning against a wall, eyes peeled.
* * *
Charlie took up his vigil again the next day and the next but my mum didn’t show or answer her phone. She seemed to have disappeared into thin air yet again. Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie were philosophical; after all, it wasn’t the first time she’d failed to show up as promised and it undoubtedly wouldn’t be the last. I was a bit anxious myself. If she forgot to come and see Charlie, chances were she’d forget my birthday as well – a far more serious matter as far as I was concerned. She’d never forgotten before, although sometimes she’d been a bit late.
I asked Auntie Maggie what she thought had happened to her.
‘I ’spect she was ambushed by a vat of gin somewhere between here and there. Don’t you worry, love. She’ll show when she sobers up. Meanwhile, we’ve got a birthday to organize; I just wish I could remember whose.’
My wail of protest brought a wink and a huge grin to her beloved round face and I was reassured.
I can remember vividly what I got for my birthday that year because I still treasure it today. It was a truly beautiful doll’s house lovingly built by Uncle Bert and decorated by Auntie Maggie. Uncle Bert had spent months and months working on it in secret during lulls in business while I was at school and after I had gone to bed. They had hidden it in the cellar, happy in the knowledge that nothing on this earth would induce me to go down there on my own. Madame Zelda, Paulette and the Campaninis were in on the secret and each contributed something to it.
Uncle Bert had made a three-storey, Georgian-type house, not unlike some of the buildings round Soho. The front was covered in paper that looked just like real bricks and there were steps up to an elegant porch and a panelled door with a handsome fanlight above. The whole frontage was hinged so that it opened to give access to the interior. The first two floors had a hallway with two large rooms on each side, and there were six little attic rooms on the third floor. These were for the servants, my auntie Maggie said.
There was a kitchen, complete with a tiny black range, a white butler’s sink and a built-in dresser with shelves and cupboards. The floor was covered in the lino that we had in our own kitchen. The living rooms were much more luxurious, with wallpaper, carpets, fireplaces and tiny electric lights that really worked. The battery that operated them was housed in a sort of lean-to attached to the back of the building. I was mesmerized by them and knackered the battery in double-quick time by switching them on and off constantly. Luckily, Uncle Bert had anticipated this and thoughtfully provided a spare. Uncle Bert had an uncanny knack of thinking just like a child when the occasion demanded.
Auntie Maggie, Madame Zelda, Paulette and Mamma Campanini also did me proud. Madame Zelda provided a lovely little settee and two armchairs for the living room. Paulette gave me a bedroom suite, complete with a four-poster bed, a wardrobe and a dressing table. Mamma Campanini’s contribution was a hamper full of food for the kitchen. The bright pink ham joint and the leg of mutton were made of plaster, and so was a minute loaf of bread complete with bread board. There was a bottle of wine, made of real glass, and packets labelled sugar, flour, suet and tea. The tinned stuff looked just like the real thing – tomato soup, baked beans, red salmon and peaches. There were even tins of custard, Oxo cubes and cornflour in miniature. Sheer magic!
Auntie Maggie had really gone to town. One of her parcels contained the dinkiest tea set you ever saw and another held a set of copper pans for the kitchen. Yet another was full of minute rag rugs, sets of curtains, a quilt for the four-poster and lampshades for the torch bulbs suspended from the ceilings. She had made all of these things herself and it’s a wonder that she didn’t go blind, what with the tiny little stitches and all. When I think of it now, I am staggered at just how much thought and love went into it all.